Between the Gloss and the Reality
by Alice of the Ashes
Summary: Reds and blues aren't supposed to mix. But when a cop comes across an injured runner, he makes a decision that has consequences he couldn't have imagined. Rating may change. OCs, but canon characters will make an appearance.
1. Reality

A/N: Had an idea bouncing around in my head and decided to give it a go. This fandom needs some love anyway.

I've played both the original Mirror's Edge and Catalyst. Have not read any of the comics. I'm kind of taking the two worlds of the original and Catalyst and mashing them together. The city is a lot more similar to the original (didn't quite dig the really futuristic feel of Catalyst's city), but is called Glass instead of The City. So far the only canon characters I plan to make an appearance are the original set. But we'll see where we end up!

Reviews are always a treat.

* * *

It was a bright Tuesday morning when a call came in reporting a runner on the sidewalk between 15th Avenue and Pegasus Drive. Dillon McKnight was patrolling just a few blocks down in his cruiser, and begrudgingly volunteered to evaluate the situation. Runner cleanup was never a pretty sight, but leaving a splattered corpse on the side of the street was unacceptable.

There was indeed a body lying facedown on the pavement, just a few feet from the bus stop. A small crowd had gathered to gape at the gruesome display. He saw Caucasian skin, blonde hair matted with half-congealed blood. Dillon waved them off with some rote dismissals about there being nothing to see. Upon spotting his deep blue uniform, they obediently moved on, afraid of being charged with disobedience or obstruction of justice or half a dozen others. He retrieved several orange cones from the trunk of his squad car and positioned them in a circle around the corpse, sectioning off an area twenty feet in diameter. He called in for a cleanup crew. Then he squatted next to the body, polished black boots creaking.

The bright red shirt and sweatband made it clear the crumpled, almost deflated man had been a runner and wasn't just a jumper (those, unfortunately, were more common than runners). Wearing eye-catching red had become a sort of cultural taboo in Glass since the runners took it on as their own. Anything more than red lipstick or a ruby ring was met with suspicion. The runner scare was amping up. According to the news, anyone could be a runner. Your barista, the middle-aged man who lives in the apartment above yours all alone, even your friends and family.

Dillon scoffed to himself, scratching at the short stubble along his jaw. Runners were a rare breed, few and far between. Odds were your aunt wasn't moonlighting as a runner.

And if you did see a runner, you let them go. It wasn't worth a broken neck. The City Protection Force was briefed and trained on how to identify and handle runners of course (training mostly consisted of some sprinting exercises), but it was common knowledge on the force that the actual number of reds was comparatively low, and bumping into one wasn't commonplace. The sons of bitches were fast and quiet, and mostly stayed out of the way. The only runners Dillon had ever really seen had been ones that made a fatal mistake on the roofs.

Dillon felt oddly moved, seeing one of those sky-dwellers down on the street. Like a dead bird, or a fallen angel. Which was stupid, because logically the runners came down to street level sometimes. Some of them passed for normal citizens, led a double life with a job and an apartment and a pet. Not most, but some. According to Kruger Security's studies. Those that they had deigned to share with the CPF.

The pavement around the runner was stained with blood. His head was twisted at an awkward angle, face turned away from Dillon, both legs clearly broken. A dirty, white sneaker had flown loose. Geometric tattoos ran up both arms, and droplets of blood flecked the glass wall of the bus stop. Dillon wondered what had made him fall.

He didn't want to turn the body over, didn't want to touch it. But he had to. He had to check for identification. Runners weren't known for carrying ID, but it was procedure. Then he'd have to stand guard over the grisly scene until cleanup arrived. If nobody claimed the body within twenty-four hours, it would be incinerated. Glass didn't hold dead runners in high regard.

Dillon grasped the young man's shoulder with one gloved hand and turned him over. The body made a wet sort of sound. The skin of his face was raw. His nose was squashed flat, one cheekbone shattered, and several teeth busted loose. Thankfully, his eyes were closed. Dillon searched the runner's pockets, finding only a flattened pack of chewing gum. The discovery disturbed him, as did anything he found on a runner's body that wasn't contraband. Speaking of, there was none to be seen. If the runner had been carrying anything, a civvie might have taken it. He'd have the cameras checked.

A white van labeled "City Protection Force" pulled up to the curb. Three men stepped out in white hazmat suits. They unceremoniously bundled the runner into a black body bag and tossed it into the back of the van. One of the men took Dillon aside while the other two began spraying down the sidewalk.

"Any identification?"

Dillon shook his head. "None. Like usual."

The cleaner nodded, unsurprised. "We got it from here."

They didn't help Dillon load the cones back into his car. He felt a bulge in the back of his pants when he flopped into the driver's seat. He'd unconsciously pocketed the runner's pack of gum. His skin crawled, and he resisted the urge to fling the pack out the window. Littering was unacceptable. And if he was spotted by the cleaners or a civilian and reported, he'd lose his job. He drove back to resume his patrol route, crushing the cardboard in his fist, and chucked the pack into the first trash can he found.

He was still thinking about the runner when he went to bed that night. His dreams were fitful, all flashes of red and pounding feet and dizzying heights.


	2. Midnight Oil

A/N: Nobody cares about this fandom anymore but that's ok, I still do.

* * *

Dillon was supposed to get all the necessary paperwork on the incident with the dead runner finished the next day, but he was sent to the scene of a major accident involving a city bus, two cars, and a streetlight, and spent several hours with a fluorescent orange stick in his hand, diverting traffic. He still might have gotten the report done in what time he had left at the end of the day if Julian hadn't stopped by his cubicle and insisted on recounting his date with Alexia in great detail. Dillon had decided it was best to let Julian speak his piece instead of risking offending him and souring office relations. He did, however, politely decline Julian's invitation for a drink that night.

Dillon walked into his 12th floor apartment at precisely 6:55 PM, rounding out his work shift (including the forty-five minutes round-trip spent walking and on the train) at a little over twelve hours. His accommodations were neat and clean. Spartan. Sleek and modern. His neatly-made bed occupied one corner. The only other furniture was a bedside table, a small black settee shoved under the window, a small table, and two chairs. A door separated the small bathroom from the rest of the apartment; the kitchen had just enough room for his top-freezer refrigerator, a sink, and a short section of countertop. Not lavish, but a better living situation than many in Glass could afford.

He set his backpack next to his bed and took a quick, cold shower. While a frozen dinner warmed in the microwave, he sat on the bed in his briefs, took his laptop from his backpack, and opened up the digital file on the dead runner. Unidentified male. Caucasian, coroner estimated between sixteen and nineteen years old. Fingerprints and dental records weren't in the system, so he had never been arrested and had been off the grid for a long time, at least since he was a small child. Maybe even born off the grid. Cause of death was him hitting the pavement at near terminal velocity from one of the skyscrapers above the spot where he was found. No witness reports of a weapon discharge, so the runner either had a fatal trip or got into some sort of scuffle with another runner. Although they had never been observed to kill their own, it was strongly suspected that there was some sort of competition and occasional conflict between the different cabals.

The tattoos were what was really interesting. K-Sec had been leaning on CPF to begin recording the body modifications of the runners they arrested or found dead. Although K-Sec was normally hesitant to show CPF their hand, they did deign to tell them that runners' tattoos were some form of identification. What they were trying to learn was if it was a way of marking rank, goods transported, or allegiance. So far, the few runners that CPF had had in their custody had not been cooperative. K-Sec always swooped in to take the runners to some black site or underground prison somewhere within hours.

The dead runner sported dozens of triangles of varying sizes that nestled together to form a band that coiled around both arms, up his shoulders, across his chest, and up to his jawline. All of the inked shapes appeared to be the same age, according to the coroner, meaning they weren't tattoos but all one tattoo. So not some sort of gradually-grown record of accomplishment, then. Probably not a mark of rank, either, since it was so large and there were no other tattoos on the body. If Dillon had to guess, he would have pegged it as a mark of allegiance to one of the cabals. The lack of contraband on the runner meant he likely hadn't been out on a run, so the cabal was likely somewhere near the area of the fall.

Dillon put that little hunch in his notes. Couldn't hurt.

The microwave beeped. Dillon retrieved his tray of beef, green beans, and mashed potatoes. Nutritionally well-rounded, all grown and harvested at Elysium-sponsored farms.

He padded back to the bed with his dinner. No piercings, no scarification. Nothing else of note.

Dillon included several pictures of where the runner had been found, taken by the cleanup crew, along with pictures of the runner's tattoos, taken by the coroner. He gave a brief summary of his actions upon arriving at the scene, and of course his hunch about the tattoos.

He saved the report for a final review in the morning, then leaned back against his pillows and looked out his window at the evening skyline as he chewed his bland-but-serviceable beans. The skyscrapers and office buildings looked sharp and clean from afar, distance hiding the grime he knew was there, visible on close inspection. Crammed into alleys and the crisscross of tunnels that ran under Glass. You couldn't be a cop for long and not notice it. It was his job to keep the grime at bay. To clean it up, keep it from overtaking the city. Runners were a representation of that grit. They spread across the rooftops of Glass like an oil spill.

CPF had been content to let the runners exist as long as they stayed out of the way and didn't commit any crimes too heinous. But that was starting to change. K-Sec was getting ready to ramp up the heat, big time. Dillon wondered if the runners would be up to the task. Kruger Security had some truly impressive tech, and seemingly endless finances and drive, but the runners had displayed a knack for staying out of sight and out of trouble. Relatively. K-Sec wanted to scrub that grime out, and the runners were some of the most stubborn spots.

Dillon shoveled a bite of dry beef into his mouth. He understood why K-Sec wanted the runners gone. They were law-breakers by their very existence off the grid. They made their living stealing and smuggling. But something about that life drew people in, attracted them. No matter how many runners got collared by police or fell from the rooftops, they never went away. Dillon couldn't understand it. But a very small part of him, perhaps, could respect it.


	3. The Murder of Robert Pope

_One week later_

When Dillon heard the news, he was processing a teenager for defacing the side of an office building with graffiti – fairly tame, young rebel foolishness: a few phrases about resisting oppression, opening minds, being true to yourself. But it could not be tolerated. It was his third offence, and he would be doing light time in juvie. Julian had snagged Dillon's arm as Dillon walked the boy into a holding cell.

"Have you seen the news?"

Dillon squinted.

"It's all over the Grid."

"No, I'm a little busy here. I always turn my beatlink off while processing."

"Well, maybe you should stop doing that. Pope's been found dead. Murder."

The teenager twisted around to gape at Julian and Dillon gave him a firm push. "Who?"

"Robert Pope. That attorney. He was running for mayor."

Dillon recalled now. Pope had emerged onto the stage on a platform of change and bucking authoritarianism. He'd had a surprising amount of support, considering the percentage of the population that never committed a crime and conformed completely to the system.

Dillon stepped away from the cell and latched the door. "How long ago was he found?"

"About five minutes. Every cop in that district was called to his office. Come on, we're being brought in to support."

"What is there to support?"

"One of the suspects escaped, on foot."

Dillon raised his eyebrows. "A runner, then."

"Yeah, and a damn fine one from the sound of it. Must have had a good tracker too; they punched right through the cavalry."

"Has the other suspect been identified?"

"A CPF officer, don't know more than that."

Dillon flexed his jaw. "Christ."

"Yeah, it's a shitshow. Let's go, van's waiting."

As they walked out the doors of the police station, Dillon tapped his temple twice. His beatlink earpiece beeped to life, and a small news scroll appeared at the top of his vision as the beatlink contact lens activated. Robert Pope found dead in his office of a gunshot wound. Since it was Saturday, most of the building had been empty, but one worker on a different floor had called to report the gunshot. One suspect apprehended. Multiple roads closed.

Dillon stepped into the back of the unmarked black van and took his seat on the bench along with the eight other officers already inside. His beatlink earpiece quieted and the contact lens cleared. Instructions from their lieutenant came from a speaker in the van, clear and firm. They were to support efforts to locate and apprehend the escaped runner. Female, Asian, 5'9, about 125 lbs, a black tattoo around one eye and a black tattoo down one arm. Wearing a black tank top and white pants. Unarmed, but dangerous; she had already landed three officers in the hospital. If apprehension was not an option, lethal force was authorized.

They spent all day and night combing Glass, scanning up and down every street, kicking in doors, filling the skies with helicopters and drones. Dillon lost count of how many offices they held up, looking in supply closets and under desks for the runner. He lost count of the dumpsters checked, trains stopped, rooftops searched. Apart from a few dubiously credible sightings, they had no leads.

Dillon and Julian commiserated over paper cups of burnt, watery coffee when they were given a break after fourteen hours of the manhunt and allowed to sit in the local police station.

"How does someone just disappear like that?" Dillon took a sip. Pain flared to the root of his tongue and he winced. "Shit, this is hot."

"Like I said, a great tracker. Probably has access to the Grid."

Dillon sniffed, took another sip. His numb tongue didn't register the temperature of the coffee anymore. "It wouldn't be terribly surprising."

"CPF is really going to step up their game now, especially since an officer was involved."

"Allegedly."

Julian raised his hands in a motion of surrender. "You ever heard of this Kate chick before?"

"I don't think so."

Julian chuckled. "I bet K-Sec has a stiffy over this whole mess."

Dillon allowed himself a smile. "You probably aren't wrong."

* * *

In the days that followed Pope's murder, new policies and protocols were put into place. The City Protection Force was encouraged to confront any runners they came across, and to use force to subdue them if necessary. K-Sec was brought in to advise and train on runner apprehension and identification. They had begun a program called Project Icarus that involved training specialized law units to chase down runners, and they were willing to share some of what they had learned.

Julian, always privy to the latest gossip, informed Dillon that a runner had begun working with K-Sec six months prior. Whether the runner had approached K-Sec willingly or had been incarcerated and forced to assist was uncertain. If the runner had chosen to help K-Sec for his or her own personal gain, Dillon hoped other runners didn't figure it out. He couldn't imagine they treated traitors well. Julian had also heard that there was more to Project Icarus than merely training K-Sec people to jump across rooftops.

Although he would not admit so to any of his fellow officers, even to Julian, the reaction to Pope's murder didn't sit right with Dillon. Surely they had better ways to spend their energy than chasing down every runner they spotted, or thought they spotted. Most of CPF's officers didn't have a prayer of catching a runner, and the little gymnasts avoided all confrontation anyway. Better to spend time and manpower cracking down on crimes that had victims. Not that Dillon thought the runners should be ignored, but the city's priorities seemed to be a little misplaced. Dillon thought he smelled a rat.

His suspicions were confirmed when in the span of a week, two separate officers shot at two separate runners with live ammunition, resulting in one runner falling to her death and another being arrested. Neither cop was required to do more than fill out incident paperwork, and neither were so much as given a slap on the wrist. Times, it seemed, were changing.


	4. Runner in the Rain

A/N: Apologies for making ya'll wait a month.

* * *

"Squad car fourteen, come in."

Dillon snatched the mic from his dash and depressed the button. "Squad car fourteen, reporting."

"We received a call about a suspicious figure near _Schultzman's_ on Thirty-Fifth Avenue. Please evaluate the situation and report back."

Releasing the button, he sighed through his nose. Probably loiterers or, at the worst, petty thieves. A small part of him hoped for the latter; if he had to get out of his car and poke around on this rainy night, then he was going to be pissed. Nobody would bat an eye over a small-time criminal coming in with a fresh bruise or two. He brought the mic back to his lips. "Will do, over and out."

* * *

Dillon panned his car's floodlight over the storefront of _Schultzman's Jewelry_. He didn't see anything noteworthy, no broken glass or open doors or movement inside the store. He directed the light down the alleyway next to the store, but dumpsters and piles of boxes cast long shadows that could easily hide a person. With a groan, he rolled his car window down just an inch. That small gap alone allowed a steady stream of rain to trickle down the inside of the glass and onto his door handle.

"Is anyone there?"

Silence.

Dillon was tempted to just leave, but if there was someone hiding in the alley who later broke into the store or hurt someone, it would be on him. Not to mention his ass would be grass back at the station.

"Godammit."

Dillon opened the door and stepped out into the downpour. Hunching his shoulders, he clicked on his tactical flashlight and approached the alleyway, one hand resting on the grip of his pistol. Nonlethal rounds, still. Dillon wasn't comfortable with blasting holes in runners just yet. His profile blocked some of the light from the flood, throwing a spooky silhouette down the alley. He peeked around the first dumpster. Nothing.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "Is anyone here?"

A pair of rats scurried behind a stack of boxes as he walked past. He heard more shuffling from further within the alley, but it sounded different. Bigger. Dillon's hair stood on end and his heart jumped. Someone was down there, he knew it. He unholstered his weapon and approached with it drawn.

"Police, come out with your hands up."

Water ran down his face, over his fingers, but he didn't dare wipe his eyes or adjust his grip. He rounded the corner of another dumpster, and it was all he could do to keep from reflexively pulling the trigger when he saw someone hunched in the shadows there, a woman. Biting back a curse, Dillon shone his light in her face. She squinted, but refused to bring a hand up to shield her eyes.

He'd found a runner, that much was obvious. An interlocking grid of triangles of varying sizes had been inked down the coffee skin of one arm and shoulder, like the dead kid's. Her tank and fingerless gloves were fire engine red. She was wearing running shoes, and her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her black capris were torn down one leg and he could see bright blood through the fabric. She was slim, but strong. Lithe.

Dillon leveled his weapon at her face. "Hand over whatever you're carrying."

She narrowed her kohl-rimmed eyes. "I'm not carrying anything." Her voice was smoky, low.

Dillon flicked the muzzle of his weapon. "Up."

Glaring, she rose to her feet. She had to lean heavily against the wall to do so, and she favored her injured leg. Dillon kept his weapon trained on her with one hand and held his light in his teeth as he gave her a quick pat-down. She wasn't hiding anything, not that there were many places she could hide something in what she was wearing. As Dillon ran his hand down her legs and up her side, he noticed she was shivering. He wondered how long she had been sitting in the rain.

Dillon realized, with a cold sort of feeling under his sternum, that when he took her in, she would be heavily and intensely interrogated. Then days, maybe weeks later, she'd be locked away for life in some blacksite. Or killed.

"What happened to your leg?"

"Fell."

"Where you headed?"

She chewed her lip for a moment before answering. "Home."

"And where's that?"

She gave a derisive snort and he felt his own mouth quirk. Worth a shot.

Stepping back, Dillon gave the runner some space while keeping his weapon and light pointed at her. Was he comfortable with the knowledge that her life would be over, either figuratively or literally, that she would be beaten and drugged and beaten some more? Did he think it was right?

He gestured with his gun further into the alley, away from his car. "Move."

She limped in the direction he indicated with slow, distrustful movements. Dillon walked her to what had probably been the object of her attention when the report was made, a ladder to the roof enclosed by a locked cage for the first twenty feet or so. He struck the padlock with the butt of his flashlight and dropped the broken lock to the ground. He flicked the cage door open.

"Get the hell out of here."

She blinked at him.

"Before I change my mind."

The runner didn't need to be told again. Even with her injured leg, she was up the ladder impressively quickly.

Upon returning to his squad car, Dillon picked up the mic. "Squad car fourteen, reporting in."

"Proceed, squad car fourteen."

"Nothing suspicious around Thirty-fifth. Returning to patrol."

"Understood."

Dillon could already feel the beginning of doubt creeping in. He'd made an egregious violation. If this incident was ever discovered, he'd lose his badge and probably his freedom. Perhaps he was getting soft. Could he blame the runner crackdowns? He sighed and pulled away from _Schultzman's_ , deciding to chalk it up to a lapse caused by the unpleasant night and a series of long shifts, and not think about it again.


	5. New Developments

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, here's a longer chapter to compensate.

* * *

Dillon came into the police office the following morning with a stiff spine and a set jaw, dreading trouble. What he had done the night before had been stupid, impulsive. He didn't think anyone had seen him, peeking out of their apartment or office window, didn't think he and the runner had been in the field of view of any cameras, but he wasn't positive. He half-expected to be arrested the moment he set foot in the doorway. But there wasn't a line of officers waiting for him with tasers and batons at the ready, and he walked to his desk and sat down without any fuss or commotion.

Dillon relaxed, but only marginally. The trouble might come later. There was time yet for some witness to come forward.

Julian rolled his chair over to Dillon's desk. "We have a briefing in twenty, sounds urgent. You just missed the announcement. Rumor is that it has something to do with the Pope shitshow." Julian looked almost gleeful, eyes lit with excitement. This was the most entertainment he'd had on the job in years, Dillon had heard him bellyache about writing parking tickets and busting teenage loiterers enough to know this.

Dillon could feel the corners of his eyes tighten. "That so?" Letting that runner go had been a mistake, right in the middle of this Pope fiasco. Runners were all over the news, every civilian was on the lookout, every cop seeing red flashes in alleys and around corners. If the law would have had him given a few decades in prison before, they would skin him alive now. They'd brand him the worst kind of traitor, maybe even accuse him of being a runner himself.

If that runner he'd helped ever got busted, she'd probably squeal on him in exchange for a softer sentence. The best he could hope for was that she'd been too injured to get back to her rat hole and had fallen to her death somewhere.

Dillon tried to focus on polishing up his report on the splattered runner kid, but it was near impossible to ignore the itch of sweat on his scalp and down his spine. He attempted to dismiss his fears. No one had seen him, he would be fine, there was nothing that worrying could do anyway. Several years of dealing with riots, domestic disputes, and traffic accidents had taught him to separate himself from shaking hands and nervous sweats, but it was difficult to do any sort of complex task while in that robotic mindset. He hadn't yet gotten himself in a proper state to think about the fallen runner without thinking about _her_ when an artificial female voice crackled to life through the speakers mounted in the ceiling and requested that all present officers report to the conference room for a mandatory briefing.

Julian jostled Dillon's shoulder as they walked to the conference room, waggling his eyebrows.

After all the officers had seated themselves, a gruff man that Dillon did not recognize moved to the front of the room. His salt and pepper hair was as short and bristled as a toothbrush, his face lined and craggy. He regarded the officers with a near-glare from under his bushy brows. The badge on his chest gleamed in the fluorescent lighting. When he spoke, his voice rumbled. "My name is Jacob Bridges. I am here in Lieutenant Miller's stead."

Dillon's spine stiffened; Miller was someone he definitely knew. Miller had briefed his district on important events before, and he'd spoken with the man personally several times. He was polite, rigidly professional but with a true passion for his work. Something Dillon admired.

"I am sure some of you noticed technical issues with your gridLinks last night?"

A murmur went around the room, some had, some had not.

"It depends on your registered residential district, from what I understand. Regardless, the reason that there was a disturbance with the grid has been kept closely under wraps." Bridges paused, briefly clenched his jaw. "There was an incident at the Shard that resulted in most of the servers in the building being physically destroyed. This incident involved a runner and a rogue law enforcement officer."

Dillon blinked. The Shard was heavily guarded. It was almost unthinkable that a cop and a runner could have invaded the building, penetrating all the way to the server room near the top of the skyscraper.

Next to Dillon, Julian's hand shot up. Dillon resisted the urge to cover his face.

"Excuse me, sir?"

Bridges wrinkled his nose. "Yes?"

"Would that helicopter crash have anything to do with the servers being damaged?"

"Yes. Now…" Bridges thumbed his badge. "As a result of this _incident_ , Lieutenant Miller has been relieved of his duties."

Dillon felt his eyes widen, and worked to relax his face. Bridges waved his hand and the screen on the front wall of the conference room came to life. Two Asian-American women stared back at him. One was in uniform, hair pulled back in a slick bun, a head-and-shoulders shot for her security pass. The other was in a dirty tank top, jaw-length hair plastered to her sweaty skin, face marked with a large tattoo around her eye, a mugshot taken at her arrest several years prior. And still, the two were almost identical.

"Officer Kate Connors, suspect in the murder of Robert Pope, is on the run. And we are very certain that she is with the runner who infiltrated the Shard. This runner is none other than Faith Connors, her own sister, and, we have reason to believe, her cohort in Pope's murder. She matches the physical description of the runner seen fleeing the crime scene. These fugitives are at the top of our wanted list. Finding them is priority one." Bridges clasped his hands behind his back and straightened his spine. "They are wanted dead or alive. Faith Connors is especially dangerous, and has taken the lives of several law enforcement officers. You are authorized to shoot to kill if you encounter either suspects. Any questions?"

"Was Lieutenant Miller involved in the incident?"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that at this time."

"What caused the helicopter crash?"

"I can't say."

"Was Kate Connors a mole for the runners?"

"It's unclear right now."

The room settled into a begrudging silence. Bridges brought a map of the city up onto the screen, pointing out areas that Faith and Kate were expected to avoid, places they might hide. All officers would be working overtime (with pay, at least), until the women were apprehended.

As they were dismissed, Bridges hollered, "Officer McKnight! A moment, please."

Dillon felt his limbs turn to ice; Julian snickered and dug an elbow into his ribs. "Mr. Goody Two-shoes is in _trouble_."

Dillon edged through the throng of officers filing out of the conference room and stood before Bridges. "Yes, sir?"

"Just a moment, McKnight." Bridges waited until the only people remaining in the room were himself, Dillon, Sergeant Taft, Sergeant Garcia, and Inspector Thompson. Dillon braced himself for the punishment he was sure must be impending. Bridges cracked his knuckles. "Officer McKnight, I have an opportunity I think you might be interested in."

Well, that didn't sound like punishment. Dillon had to work to keep his shoulders from slumping in relief.

"We've recently partnered with Pirandello Kreuger's security division, K-Sec, to develop a training program that will produce specialized forces with the skills and knowledge to really bring the fight to the runners. This project is in its infancy, and right now we're trying to recruit an officer or two from each district as, well, guinea pigs. You'll be relieved of your current duties and enrolled in the program full-time. It will be several weeks of training before you're deployed in the field, possibly more. And it will be dangerous work. But you have high scores on your cognitive and physical exams, and a good track record. You're diligent, devoted to your duties. Sergeants Taft and Garcia recommended you for this program."

"Well, I'm honored. Thank you, sir."

"I can sense your hesitation. There would be an increase in pay, of course, to compensate you for your additional time commitments, and the inherent danger of your training and missions. I understand if the challenge seems… too great."

Dillon knew Bridges was attempting to bait him, but that didn't stop it from working. "When could I start?"

"Preferably, tomorrow."

"Count me in, sir."

Bridges' lips pulled back into a wide grin, exposing bright white teeth. "That's what I like to hear. We'll collect you at your desk tomorrow morning, seven sharp."


	6. Project Icarus

Dillon was at his desk by half-past six, and Bridges arrived only a few minutes later.

"I admire promptness," Bridges said, extending a hand toward Dillon.

Dillon clasped it and followed Bridges outside, where a tinted SUV waited. A chauffer stepped out of the vehicle to open the door for them. _Fancy_. After both men had slid into the back seat, Bridges pressed a button that lifted a partition between the front and back seats, giving them privacy.

"Once we reach Pirandello Kruger, you'll be asked to sign a bunch of shit. NDAs, waivers, agreements to background checks and screenings, etc. You seem on the up-and-up, I doubt you'll have a problem with it."

"No, sir."

"That's what I like to hear." Bridges scratched at his head, short fingernails rasping over his bristled hair. "My – our hope, is that this program will finally give us a competitive edge against the runners. I'll be honest with you, son, those sons of bitches have been running circles around us for years. I'm sure you've noticed that the average law enforcement officer can't hope to catch them. Look at you, you're in great shape –"

"Thank you, sir."

"– and even you don't stand a chance. No offense, McKnight, you wouldn't be here if you didn't have some real promise."

"None taken, sir."

Bridges tugged at his collar. "These red bastards have had even _us_ chasing our tails. Part of it is the government, of course. They weren't willing to allocate the needed resources to really crack down on the runners. It was easier to turn a blind eye. But we finally got to the same page."

Dillon kept his mouth shut. This was thin ice.

"Tell me, son." Bridges leveled his steely gaze at Dillon. "How much of a difference do you feel like you're making out there? I know sometimes you rescue a civ from a burning car wreck, or catch a killer. But I'm talking the day in, day out grind. Do you think it matters if you get one more petty vandal behind bars for the weekend? Does handing out parking tickets get your blood pumping?"

Rather than finding Bridges' scrutiny intimidating, Dillon thought it was… inspiring. Here was a man trying to better the world, here was a man who was taking action. "Honestly, sir, I often feel like I'm spinning my wheels."

Bridges nodded. "Things are going to start changing around this city. No more tolerance for rulebreakers. Rulebreakers of the real sort, not some stupid teenagers trying to disappoint daddy or some stressed single mother who accidentally parked in the wrong spot on the street." The SUV's leather seat creaked as Bridges leaned back. "I think you'll like what we're doing here, McKnight. And I think you'll fit in great."

"Thank you, sir."

The ride proceeded in silence, until they arrived at the white-and-orange complex, blocky bulldog mascot frowning down at them from the main building. A security gate opened to allow the SUV into the parking lot. The chauffer jumped out to open the car door for Bridges and Dillon.

"I apologize in advance for the mess," Bridges said, as they approached a rather small and unassuming door. "We have some construction going on in the building."

After passing the front desk (where Bridges flashed his badge at the receptionist without slowing), they took an elevator up to the fifth floor. The utilitarian, unassuming hallways were, indeed, lined with stacks of crates. People bustled about, some in business wear and some in security uniform. Dillon could hear machinery beeping and drilling deeper in the building. Bridges led Dillon through a motion-sensing, sliding door and into a blindingly bright white hallway, this one quieter than the others, near-silent. Soundproofed. The rooms they passed had wide windows with a dark tint, that he suspected were one-way. Bridges opened the door to one of these rooms and waved Dillon inside.

"I apologize for the accommodations, but the noise is atrocious in my office right now." Dillon suspected this was untrue, or only partially true.

Bridges sat at the white, metal table and Dillon followed suit. Bridges opened a drawer in the table and produced a manila folder stuffed with paperwork. He had planned to bring Dillon here, then. Bridges dropped the file in front of him, then took a fountain pen from his breast pocket.

"Sign while I talk, if you don't mind."

Dillon wondered if Bridges was attempting to divert his attention from whatever was in those forms. Keeping his face carefully neutral, Dillon opened the folder and removed the cap from the pen.

"For as long as Glass has existed, it's been a hotbed for runners. The infrastructure is to their benefit. The buildings are packed close together, it's easy for them to travel. With such a high population, they can disappear into crowds, or have suspicious habits go unnoticed. Cities with lower populations or a more rural environment don't have this… _problem_ on the scale that we do."

Bridges paused to rub his chin. Dillon flourished his name on a document requiring him to not say a peep of what was told to him inside PK's building.

"For a long time, the powers that be were content to put the runner problem on the backburner. They thought that law enforcement would slowly wear the runners down, or that the appeal of jumping from rooftops would fade. Or that they'd kill each other off – they have occasional wars over territory and clientele."

Dillon nodded. The force had begun to suspect as much, after finding more than one runner dead from a bullet that didn't trace back to a cop's gun, or huddled in an alley with combat wounds. He thought of the runner _he'd_ recently found in an alley, and let go. He reached for the next form.

"Well, that clearly didn't happen. While the number of runners isn't estimated to have increased by an appreciable amount, it hasn't declined either. And they're growing bolder. The robberies are becoming more high-profile, the substances transported more illicit. They're getting involved in more than petty thievery and courier work."

This form asked if he would consent to a background investigation. Par for the course. He signed.

"Mayor Callaghan decided that a specialized task force was necessary, one that was free to point all their focus and resources at the runners. One that could deploy faster than the City Protection Force."

The next form was full of questions about Dillon's health. He began to work his way down it.

"Callaghan approached Pirandello Kreuger, and, well, here we are. The program is still a little rough around the edges, but we're adapting at a good rate. And Callaghan is all-in. She's willing to give us almost total leeway to grow and develop to our full potential." Bridges leaned across the table and plucked up Dillon's signed NDA. He laid both hands on top of it, as if he were guarding it. "To help you fully understand the scope of what's going on here, I'm going to let you in on some information."

"Sir?"

"We've been able to recruit a few runners in exchange for leniency. _Quid pro quo_. Some of them are coaching our agents. Some of them have given us extremely valuable information." Bridges laced his fingers together over the NDA. "Kate Connors, the suspect in Robert Pope's killing, was going to be passed over to us. The pass-off was intercepted by her sister, Faith Connors. That was what caused the heli crash at the Shard. We lost a valuable asset in that crash, not to mention losing Kate. Some good men were killed in the confrontation as well."

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, why was Kate being given over to K-Sec?"

"Faith was doing a lot of poking around, causing a lot of trouble. She had already intercepted Kate's transport once, and CPF got Kate back by the skin of their teeth. Thanks, in part, to that asset K-Sec lost. Callaghan felt that we would be able to secure Kate better."

Dillon had reached the end of his medical form. Lifting it, he saw his offer letter, and let out a low whistle. K-Sec was an upgrade from CPF, indeed. He studied the fine print. "Project Icarus…"

Bridges snorted. "Poetic, isn't it? The runners think they have wings on their feet now, but they've gotten too close to the sun. Time for the reds to crash and burn."

Dillon let out a little hum of agreement and pretended to think for a moment. But his mind was already made up. He signed.


	7. Orientation

A/N: Sorry for the long radio silence, I started grad school and things got a little hectic. I think I can get back to a decent upload frequency now.

* * *

"You're here because we think you have the mental and physical grit to help us hit the runners on their own turf. It will be hard. It will be frightening. You will be injured, maybe seriously."

Dillon shifted in the cushiony, white leather office chair, imagining slipping from a balancing beam and his ankle folding beneath his weight. A quick glance at the three other recruits in the conference room with him revealed that they didn't feel the same. Or at least, weren't showing it.

"But what you'll realize is that the runners only have one thing you currently don't have – training. And _we're_ here to provide that for you."

The speaker, a tightly athletic, middle-aged man that Bridges had introduced as Darius Weathers, gestured to a large screen that took up most of the wall. A photo of a large, open-air training room appeared. Dillon saw ladders, beams, ropes, platforms of varying heights.

"Our training facilities are comprehensive, replicating just about any rooftop obstacle you might encounter." Weathers waved his hand again and a mannequin outfitted in some sort of blue and black body armor replaced the training room. A CPF badge gleamed above its heart. "Our personal protection gear will give you an immediate edge over the runners." He tapped the screen. "Boots with impact absorption, gripping tread, and steel toes. Knee and elbow pads. Studded gloves. Helmet and face mask. The armor over the chest and back is hinged to bend with your body, and will protect against small arms fire. This is all still in the prototype stage, and we will adjust the equipment to your needs and feedback."

Another wave of Weathers' hand, and the mannequin faded away. "Krueger Security and the CPF have three goals in this joint effort. One, to apprehend and arrest runners on the rooftops."

The words **'1) Apprehend and arrest runners'** appeared on the screen.

"Two, find and clear out any runner bases or safehouses. We know they must be operating out of somewhere."

' **2) Identify and eliminate runner safehouses'**

"Three, to grow and establish a rooftop patrol that prevents runners from becoming a problem again in the future."

' **3) Rooftop patrol'**

"Now, this is a big simplification. And K-Sec is very aware that there will always be runners, to an extent. Just as there will always be murderers, thieves, and so on. But we can and will break up the runner network that has established itself in Glass." Weathers paused, adjusted his starched white and orange uniform. "I'm sure you're all aware of the incident at the Shard."

A few hums of agreement.

"You might have been briefed on some of the less public details – that Kate Connors was going to be passed from CPF custody to K-Sec, and that this pass-off was interrupted by her sister, notorious runner Faith Connors. What you might not have heard was that Faith was assisted by a rogue law enforcement agent, Detective Miller."

Dillon sucked in a breath, earning a glance and a nod from Weathers.

"You knew him. He was a good cop, it's surprising that he turned on the CPF. Although he and Kate had a working relationship, he had not been known to allow his personal feelings to cloud his judgement. I say 'had' because Miller was killed when he resisted arrest at the Shard, and opened fire on K-Sec personnel."

Dillon bit down on his tongue hard enough to taste blood. It might have been better that Miller died. What would have been in store for him had he been taken in by K-Sec might have been close enough to a death sentence. Interrogation, then life in prison. Then an "accident" in the prison cafeteria or a darkened cell before too long.

"Miller told Faith about the pass-off at the Shard, and it appears that he had been working with her for some time. The true nature of their relationship is not yet known. It seems that he was the only office in his department who was colluding with the runners."

But why? Why had Miller chosen to help an assassin and a runner? Could they tell him that?

Weathers did not. He cleared his throat and changed tack. "The asset that we lost in the heli crash was a runner that had an arrangement with us. He provided us with invaluable intel and training insights. His loss is not insurmountable, but it's one that we will definitely feel. Thankfully, this runner had helped us to lay enough of a groundwork that we can continue on without him. Our main servers in the Shard sustained heavy damage, temporarily cutting us off from much of our databases. But this, too, is only a temporary setback. We have all the important stuff backed up onto servers here. And with that all said…" Weathers glanced at his watch. "I think this briefing has gone on for a few minutes too long. Let's go get fitted for our personal protection gear, yeah? I'll go make sure the equipment is all ready."

Once Weathers had left the room, Dillon turned to the other recruits, two men and a woman. He extended his hand to the blond man seated across from him. "Dillon McKnight."

The blond gave him a quick, crooked smile. "Odin Smith. Pleasure." There was a friendly gleam in his blue eyes that Dillon took a liking to immediately.

The woman next to Odin thrust her own hand out. Her dark fingers closed around Dillon's in a surprisingly strong grip. "Name's Susannah Abara." Her tight bun didn't so much as shift with her nod.

"Jacob Wilson," said the slender man next to Dillon. Jacob kept his folded arms clamped his chest. His eyes were blue as well, but they lacked the amicable shine that Odin's had. Jacob's were steely, shifting.

"Where are you guys from?" Dillon asked.

"Anchor," Odin said. "Sixth District."

"Sky City, Eighth."

Odin whistled. "What's that like?"

Susannah shrugged. "Mostly boring. A lot of rich, stuffy businesspeople, a lot of bright windows. Not much happens. I sometimes wish I was somewhere a little… dirtier, to be honest."

Dillon jerked his chin at Jacob. "What about you?"

"Downtown."

Dillon smiled. "Me too. Which district?"

"Fourth."

"I'm in Fifth. Guess our beats never crossed paths."

"Guess not."

Dillon made a mental note to be civil but distant with Jacob.

"Bet you've got more day-to-day excitement than I do, huh?" Susannah winked. "More delinquents and lawlessness."

Dillon thought of the boy runner splattered on the pavement; the woman runner squeezing behind soggy boxes of trash and rusty dumpsters, the flighty and wild gleam in her eye, the flash of red as she disappeared up the ladder. "I guess you could say that."

Odin clapped his hands together. "Speaking of delinquents, who's ready to trip some runners?"

"Oh honey, I can tell we're going to be good friends." Susannah's wide grin shattered the severity imparted by her slicked-back hair and vice grip.

"You're speaking my language," Jacob muttered, without making eye contact.

Dillon barked out a laugh. "Soon the runners will have rumors about _us_."


	8. Baby Steps

A/N: Sorry for my long absence, I had several deadlines with work and school. :)

* * *

Dillon ground the ball of one foot against the cement. His boot squeaked richly at each movement, and the brand-spanking-new soles left black scuffs on the floor. These things would take some breaking in. Every good, sturdy, boot did. He squinted up at the cavernous training room, all its ledges and ramps and pipes and ladders. The retractable ceiling had been drawn back and strong morning sunshine beamed down on the near-pristine surfaces. Closer inspection revealed a dent in a rung here, a black sole mark there. Signs the training room had seen some use, despite the effort Pirandello-Kruger put into its upkeep. Signs Dillon had just added to.

Odin came up to Dillon's side and fiddled with the buckle under his chin with a groan. "I can't believe they're making us wear helmets." He poked a tuft of blonde hair up under his helmet with a gloved finger.

Giving his own armed skull a tap, Dillon asked, "Would you rather knock your brains out if you fall?"

Susannah snorted. " _If_. Let's be real, it's _when_." She knelt to adjust her laces.

"Fine. Would you rather flatten your skull _when_ you fall?"

"Hm. A fair point," Susannah said.

"Are any of you guys afraid of heights?" Odin asked.

Susannah immediately responded, "Yep."

"Not too bad," Dillon said.

"What about you, Jacob?"

Dillon turned to look at Jacob, a little too quickly. He hadn't even known Jacob had been standing behind him. He didn't like being snuck up on, had hated it long before joining the force and having to worry about bums shoving a sharpened fork under his ribs when he turned his back.

Jacob bent over, folding nearly in half, to touch his toes. "Nah."

Dillon wondered what the pasty little sneak _was_ afraid of. Probably having his personal computer searched. Although Dillon knew it was unfair to judge someone he barely knew so harshly, he couldn't help it. Jacob made his hackles rise. He wasn't sure if it was personal or his cop radar going off.

The service elevator dinged and the doors slid back. "New blood!" A man in similar pursuit gear strode over to the group. Through the face guard, Dillon could see dark skin and intense eyes. "Name's Matthews."

He shook everyone briefly, a crushing grip and a single downward jerk. Matthews was enormous, several inches over six foot and built like a lumberjack, with the stride and posture of an officer well-accustomed to action. Dillon would have liked to know which district he came from; the name was vaguely familiar.

"We'll be doing some beginner parkour exercises today, as well as some basic hand-to-hand combat. I know you are all probably pretty familiar with the basics of hand-to-hand, but I want to make sure you have a firm foundation before we try the more advanced stuff." Matthews gestured to a huge floor mat taking up one side of the training room. "First things first: the roll. Learn it on the mat before you learn it on jumps. Your knees will thank you."

Their first exercises were deceiving. It was easy enough to practice the shoulder-to-hip roll on the mat. It was another thing entirely for Dillon to get the hang of tacking it onto the end of a jump. The momentum of a jump changed the angle and speed at which his body tucked into the roll, which he struggled to account for.

"Your boots will absorb much of the impact," Matthews told them. "But don't depend on it. Good form and technique will allow you to make larger drops, or, in a worst-case situation, pursue a runner without your gear."

Matthews had them jumping and rolling for upwards of an hour, then made them pull themselves up from hanging on ledges ten feet above the ground. When they were too tired to lift themselves up over the edge, they hung there for as long as they could before their hands gave out. Their gloves had a flexible, rubberized grip very similar to the human hand, and provided good traction with the slightest pressure.

"Being able to hang on to a ledge with an iron grip may make the difference between lasting long enough for assistance and falling twenty stories."

Next to Dillon, Susannah grunted, "Well shit, don't sugarcoat it."

Sweat dripping from his nose, Dillon shakily heaved himself up onto the platform.

Matthews twirled a finger in the air. "Again."

As the day wore on, the sun began to beat down into the training room. Matthews refused to close the ceiling. They would eventually be working their entire shifts out on the rooftops, and they needed to start getting accustomed to the heat and brightness. Dillon's entire body was wet.

The group was allowed a short break for lunch, which they took in exhausted, miserable silence in the blissful air conditioning of the cafeteria. They had been told that PK would provide all meals for them, and not to bring their own. They were on a strict diet plan. Dillon was almost too overexerted to eat. Odin inhaled his own lunch. Dillon shoved the remaining half of his meal toward Odin, who happily polished the plate. Odin had hardly finished when Matthews called them back to the training floor for combat practice.

Matthews positioned the group near a row of dummies. "Your boots have a small wedge of Kevlar in the tops of the toes," Matthews said. "The knuckles on your gloves also have Kevlar caps, as well as your knee and elbow pads. Use this to your advantage." He bent and tapped the side of his knee. "When you catch up to a runner, your objective is apprehension at whatever cost. Go for debilitating strikes that are not life-threatening. Knees and ankles. Keep them from escaping. Body hits can be effective as well. A few broken ribs can keep them from breathing deeply enough to keep running. If the situation gets desperate, go for facial strikes." Matthews turned to the upper-body dummy next to him. "Nose, temple." He demonstrated with sharp jabs to the dummy's face. "Use these last attacks with discretion. Your gloves are armored and with your adrenaline going, it's easy to hit too hard and irreversibly injure a possible informant. We can't interrogate them if they're a vegetable. Or dead. Gradual escalation of violence."

* * *

Dillon slowly swung his locker door open on its silent, greased hinges. Maybe taking this job hadn't been the wisest decision. Sure, the pay was nice. But how long did he have before he broke his back or blew out his knee? A week? A month? He eased his duffel bag over his shoulder and fished his cell phone from the side pocket. He had a text from Julian, sent two hours before.

 _Dinner at the Centurion food court tonight? I already miss you 3_

Dillon rubbed the spot between his eyes and his fingers came away greasy. He was tired as hell, but a little time around Julian might raise his spirits. Key word: little. And he could probably find something within his diet plan. He shut the locker and spun the dial lock.

 _I can grab a quick bite after I shower. Heading home now._

* * *

"Lift your legs more when you vault," Talia called. "You'll catch your foot and eat shit right as the blues are on your tail."

Her trainee for the day, Niko, gave a breathless nod and trotted back to the start of the course.

"What are you gonna teach him next?" Logan asked. "How to run in the rain?"

"Ha, ha."

Logan bumped her shoulder with a fist. "Come on. You know I have to give you a _bit_ of a hard time."

Still not taking her eyes off of Niko's practice, Talia let a ghost of a smile appear on her face. "I guess I deserve it."

Logan scratched at his inked temple, then ran his fingers through his short mohawk. Showing concern always made him uncomfortable. Joking was his natural state. "How's the leg doing?"

"Better. I still have to be careful with long drops. And I won't be picking fights with any blues anytime soon." Absentmindedly, Talia reached down and fiddled with the wrapping around her knee. "It should be back to normal in a few weeks. I got lucky. Niko! Tuck your shoulder more when you roll!"

Logan snorted. " _Should_. It's times like these I can see the advantages of being a Conglomerate drone. X-rays are nice sometimes."

"Yeah, well. We can't have everything. And I'd take the rooftops over cushy healthcare any day. Besides, we all know we aren't gonna die old. Probably won't need too many x-rays in your lifetime."

"Can't argue with that. How are the new shoes holding up? Grip better?"

"Yeah. Still breaking them in. Haran did a good job, he knows what I like in a shoe." They were fire engine red, with an individual pocket for each toe, extremely flexible material. Logan thought they were hideous, and Talia knew it. She wiggled her toes for him.

Logan wrinkled his nose. "You look like a gecko. Did Haran give you that lecture about shoes –"

Talia waved her hand. "Yep, they're a runner's most important tool. The whole spiel again."

Logan cracked his knuckles. "Ever wonder what happened to that cop? If he got in trouble or something?"

Talia shrugged. "I have no way of knowing."

"Well." Logan squinted out across the brightly-lit rooftops (Talia insisted on training in the middle of the day to build a resistance to the heat), in the direction of the police station. It wasn't visible from where they were atop the Centennial Mall, too many tall office buildings in the way. But Logan knew exactly where it was, saw it clearly in his mind's eye, and could probably make it there in less than ten minutes. "Much as I hate the sons of bitches, I hope that one didn't get in too much trouble."

Talia blew out her cheeks and followed Logan's gaze. It was her turn to feel uncomfortable. Things were easier if she thought of blues as malicious, unrepentant, brainwashed Conglomerate foot soldiers. "Yeah."

"Kind of makes you wonder if there's a chance for Glass after all."

She sighed. "I wouldn't go that far."

"Pessimist."

Narrowing her eyes, she spat on the bird shit-splattered concrete near her feet. "Niko!"

Talia's trainee faltered in his leap over an air conditioning unit and landed clumsily. His shoulder and jaw smashed into the roof.

"You have to be focused. Aware of your surroundings while remaining clear of distractions," Talia called.

"That was dirty trick," Logan whispered.

Talia ignored him. "You can't let a slamming door or a car horn screw up your flow."

Grimacing, Niko pushed himself to his feet. He swiped at the blood on his stubbled chin and wordlessly resumed his circuit.

Logan smiled. "He might make a decent runner yet."

Talia's lip quirked. "He has spunk. He'll get his ink eventually."

"Eventually?"

"Baby steps. Change takes time. He's got to shake off that easy life he had. Sitting all day, taking the bus, never having to look over his shoulder."

"He's only fifteen, perfect time to change."

Talia bit down lightly on one of her calloused knuckles. "He's one of the lucky ones."


End file.
